10. A Useful Gossip
A Useful Gossip
Come March, restless with some feeling he could not explain, Darcy was almost glad to leave Pemberley.
He took the newest carriage, a chaise with maroon leather cushions that had been delivered to Pemberley a month prior.
He preferred to travel the distance alone the first time in a new vehicle to ensure its safety and comfort, and indeed, he was pleased with the relative lack of rattling along the roads.
He even managed to read and to sleep, at least a little, during the first two days of the journey.
As had happened more than was proper since the previous autumn, Darcy dreamt of events from the past and those yet to happen—or unlikely to happen—with Miss Elizabeth Bennet the central figure in them all, her eyes shining and her perfectly formed lips awaiting his.
A hard bump along the Great North Road, rutted by a long winter of wheels and blades cutting through frozen ground, woke him from a spirited argument in a cavernous gallery of portraits in which the subjects themselves seemed to be listening to—and judging—their parries.
‘Just kiss the girl’, a bearded fellow had said with a chuckle, prompting hoots from three old men in Elizabethan collars.
Darcy shook his head, rubbing his face as if the motion would dispel the image of Miss Elizabeth’s beautiful face looking at him longingly.
Sliding open the side-glass, he breathed deeply of the fresh air, which cooled his heated skin.
When the chaise slowed to take a sharp turn, he glimpsed a familiar gatehouse at the drive to Haye-Park and felt a thrum of anticipation—they were close to Meryton.
Although he dared not venture into the town itself, he felt a need to stretch his legs and refresh himself before the final stage of the journey to London.
Recalling an inn not much farther on, he rapped on the roof.
When Bingley’s thick, heavily blotted letter had arrived at Pemberley in February, Darcy had taken pains to decipher it, employing both a quizzing glass to magnify the scratchings and handing it to his valet to see what words he could discern from amid the uneven loops and inky blotches.
From what the two of them could decipher, Bingley had written to Mr Bennet of his hopes to call at Longbourn if he returned to Meryton.
He had received no reply, which Darcy thought implied more about the squire’s careless indolence than any disregard for Bingley.
However, Bingley wrote, he was further disheartened by a letter from Netherfield’s housekeeper.
Mrs Bennet’s youngest daughters had recently come in search of a missing pink bonnet, thought by their mother to have been left behind during Miss Bennet’s stay in November—but as she and Miss Elizabeth were no longer at Longbourn and had denied bringing it on their travels, the mystery was unsolved.
Where could Jane and Elizabeth Bennet have gone off to?
Clearly, Bingley was panicked by the news.
Darcy could not deny his own curiosity but assured himself—and wrote in his reply—that a visit to family was most likely.
The idea that the pair might be enjoying themselves at a house party filled with eligible young men was not one Darcy wished to put into Bingley’s head.
His friend had written and crossed out a question about either lady wearing a pink bonnet at Netherfield.
Bingley was a fool to believe the younger Bennet girls sincere in their ‘excuse’ for calling at Netherfield—bonnet-hunting rather than seeking information on whether he planned to return to the estate.
Darcy was confident he would not. Without the company of his sisters, who had refused to return, or Darcy, Bingley would find the house dull and unbearably lonely.
It was a shallowness of character Darcy could not respect, but no one, even himself, was a perfect being.
Thus Bingley had had no recourse but to remain in town and enjoy society, where, Darcy suspected, his friend would soon meet a new angel.
It was the easiest, most agreeable resolution for everyone.
But now he was within a few miles of Longbourn, and although Darcy had no intention of calling on the Bennets, the mere fact that he felt a burning desire to do so and learn of Miss Elizabeth’s whereabouts was unnerving.
Yes, he thought often of her, and his dreams were frequently full of her, but what was he about, truly?
The carriage drew up to the Red Lion, a small but neatly kept inn he recalled passing for years on his journeys to and from Pemberley.
It felt like a safe choice, stopping here to water the horses, for whom from Meryton was likely to frequent a place so near to their home yet still outside of it?
He had his answer when he took his first step towards the place. The heavy, red-painted door opened, and Sir William Lucas stepped out, squinting into the bright sun and bursting into a loud cry of delight.
“Mr Darcy! How unexpected it is that you are here!” Sir William effused, his cheeks ruddy and his breath redolent of ale. “Are you continuing on to Meryton?”
Darcy managed to greet the garrulous knight, stating that he was travelling from Derbyshire to London.
Despite his clear disappointment that Darcy was not returning to Meryton’s ‘illustrious’ society, Sir William was fulsome in his praise of the roads, the company Darcy was certain to keep in town, and the scent of spring in the country air.
Darcy was becoming rather desperate to enter the inn and quench his own thirst but wished to avoid Sir William regaining the inn to join him.
He could not enjoy such a delay, but before he could explain his haste, his companion spoke again.
“Our society is far quieter than when you were here with Mr Bingley. We have lost three of our jewels, gone from our neighbourhood on holidays, or as in the happy case of my daughter Charlotte, off to Kent as the wife of Mr Collins.”
Darcy greeted this news with bemusement. Elizabeth’s friend married that fool and now has a connexion to Rosings?
Seemingly encouraged by Darcy’s silence, Sir William began an oration on the beauties of the parsonage and its garden, finally concluding, “Indeed, Charlotte is quite content. I am returning from a visit there with my daughter Maria and Charlotte’s friend, Miss Elizabeth Bennet—”
Darcy’s eyes immediately began searching the inn’s courtyard for one young lady.
“—who had lately been in town with her elder sister, who remains there visiting her aunt and uncle. Our society in Meryton is quieter without them.”
The uncle in trade. Cheapside? Nodding, Darcy said, “Knowing the beauty of the countryside, I am sure Miss Elizabeth enjoyed her visit. It was kind of you to have her join your family party.” He barely stopped himself from enquiring whether the ladies were inside the inn.
Sir William nodded as if he sensed his curiosity. “She and Maria remain there, keeping Charlotte company, until after Easter. Lizzy—Miss Elizabeth—is a lively, merry sort of girl, and Maria is pleased to have her company.”
Sir William continued speaking of the parsonage and his recent visit. Darcy, astonished by the news that Elizabeth was in Kent, residing only a few hundred yards from Rosings, ceased to listen, only hearing the last few words of the man’s ramblings.
“—Lady Catherine de Bourgh is your aunt, I believe?”
“Indeed, she was my mother’s sister.”
“Ah, a most impressive lady, and so intent on ensuring Charlotte runs her own home more than adequately.” Sir William chuckled. “Lady Catherine is, perhaps, less amused by Lizzy’s humour, but I believe she finds her quite the intrigue.”
Darcy’s lips quirked. “I suppose she does.”